


Yours Are Rattled Bones

by maharieel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, literally nothing but blood and tears, very very tiny bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8248573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharieel/pseuds/maharieel
Summary: Dragons never did sit well with Dorian.





	

**Author's Note:**

> it's so fucking typical that my first fic for these two is pure angst.

An eeriness clung to every inch of the grove that made Dorian’s skin prick, and not even the warm colours of the sunset in the distance seemed capable of easing the feeling. The shadows that danced around the small fire leapt at him every now and then, which really wasn’t doing wonders for his current state. Bandages covered most of his bare chest, his head still pounded absently and his left arm was severely bruised. Dorian hadn’t even been able to move because of the risk of stressing his already fucked up body, leaving him the options of either suffocating in his tent, or propped against a boulder by the fire.

In all honesty, the dragon had not been the sanest of ideas.

They’d spent the better part of the week rampaging through the countryside, though, and to much less resistance than usual. Nights spent victoriously drinking wine Varric had smuggled from Leliana around dim-lit fires had only boosted the morale of their small troupe. Put simply: they’d all grown sticks up their ass’s miles long and weren’t interested in being told otherwise.

Dorian glanced across the fire to the small line one of the scouts had set up for their soiled clothes. The putrid scent of the Fens still clung to the air around him and he would have done anything for their attire to simply be burned, cares aside. He hated this place, with all the wyverns and poisonous pools and Freeman, and he wasn’t the only one. Varric had sunk almost waist-deep after a few steps into the brackish water, and Kurt – despite his best efforts – had failed miserably at hiding his displeasure. The only one who’d seemed not completely put-off by the whole predicament had been Bull, but the bastard tended to be the exception to numerous things.

It was just his luck that amongst all that, there had been a dragon.

They hadn’t searched it out so much as stumbled upon it. Kurt had simply been following the scout’s directions to a rift when the blasted thing had appeared out of a cloud of steam, lightning crackling within its jaws. Dorian, being the only sane one of the party, had objected, but his words had been cut off by Bull’s roar as he’d plunged into the fray. Typically, Kurt had followed suit, too lost in his lingering rage to care, leaving Varric and Dorian not much choice but to follow.

It hadn’t gone terribly. Not to begin with, anyhow. Quick enough they’d had the beast on its last legs, Kurt and Bull hacking away chunks at a time while Dorian and Varric attempted to stay out of the dragon’s ranged attacks. They’d barely taken a beating. Despite that though, it had still managed to take flight even as bits of it had fallen away like shedding skin. Dorian had found his eyes dragging along Kurt’s bloodied form as the man had run towards him, sword held deftly over his shoulder. Such feral joy had flickered in those too often shadowed eyes despite the enormity of the situation, and Dorian had revelled in the way the sight had made his stomach seize. They’d been so close to destroying their third dragon.

Dorian dropped his eyes to the hazardous bandaging across his torso as another shiver wracked him. _So fucking close_. And yet he’d been too blind in his study of their beloved Inquisitor and their impending victory to note the dragon’s sudden nose dive, or Kurt’s panicked gaze as he’d shouted frantically at him, or the slab of scales and teeth that had given up entirely on its magic and reverted to sheer bludgeoning to survive. The others had seen it and dove away, only taking minor damage from wayward extremities or debris.

The brunt of the dragon had slammed straight into Dorian.

Everything had fallen to darkness or some form of the term after that.

_(The claw that had shoved Kurt backwards into a dilapidated tree had left him standing just enough to witness it; he’d seen the impact, seen Dorian’s severely unprepared body crushed then thrown across the water like a skipping stone, seen the spray of blood as claws had torn through his recently sun-kissed skin, seen the first person he’d ever trusted in Maker knows how long face-down and limp in a cloud of water and electricity. The dragon had been half to the Fade, and yet its brute force had still lingered enough to toss a full grown man halfway across its lair. Kurt hadn’t screamed in almost a decade.)_

Dorian had briefly been roused by a face-full of chest hair as Varric had shoved two potions down his throat, not that it had done much other than ease the searing pain in his chest and almost drown him. His vision had barely held it together, but he’d been just lucid enough to see the hulking corpse of the dragon some ways off and a blonde-haired figure ripping his sword from its eye socket. The sight had lifted the feeling of death in him barely and he’d somehow, kaffas, managed to keep the Fade at bay until that blonde hair was swinging in his face. It was matted with blood and had fallen from its tie at some point, and under any other circumstance he would have had to fight the urge to reach for it.

But then blood, his blood, had surged up his throat and he was dragged down, down until the world had fallen to black again.

_(The rage had continued to consume Kurt for a solid few minutes even after the dragon had collapsed in a heap beneath him. Bull had helped him out of it like usual, understanding what it was like the most out of anyone and being the most equipped to take any accidental damage. Not that any of them could afford it at that moment, but nevertheless the Qunari had heaved himself to his feet, bloodied and barely standing, and helped ease Kurt back to himself. White pain had gnawed at his leg where the creature had sunk a few of its hulking teeth into his thigh and Kurt had stumbled to his knees as the pain had resurfaced from wherever the dragons blood within him hid it._

_The image had hit him then._

_Again, the pain was shoved aside – along with his sword – as Kurt sprinted for the two forms on the other side of the lair. Varric had somehow dragged Dorian’s mostly limp form out of the water at some point and was cradling the mage’s upper half in his lap, shoving the last of a second flask down Dorian’s throat as Kurt fell down beside him. If his leg flared, he didn’t notice._

_“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he stuttered, hands hovering helplessly above the mutilated chest before him. Kurt wouldn’t have even been sure that Dorian was still alive if it hadn’t been for the slight twitch in his fingers and occasional gurgling noise he assumed was an attempt at breathing. Before Kurt could say or do anything else though, a bout of blood had bubbled up Dorian’s throat and spilled across his jowls, dragging the man down with it.)_

It had been at least a few days since then, maybe more, Dorian wasn’t certain. Glimpses of that blonde hair or bloodied rags or scouts hovering above him had flashed in his vision occasionally as he’d been haphazardly stitched back together. But despite the healing efforts of everyone, it hadn’t been until the mage had arrived yesterday that his condition had begun improving.

Glancing into the fire, he fought the urge to groan at his other problem. He’d been awake for little under a day now, having gathered enough strength to at least keep himself lucid, and not once had he even conversed with Kurt. Whether out of anger or fear, Dorian wasn’t sure, but the Inquisitor had been avoiding him (which, considering his state, probably wasn’t too difficult).

The thought had been tossing through his mind for mere seconds when the man in question materialised from behind a tent, head bowed low as he quietly talked with one of Harding’s people. He was, of course, still mostly armoured and still brandishing that preposterous sword across his back; when or how both had been restored to such good condition, Dorian couldn’t fathom. Regardless, it wasn’t long before the Inquisitor caught sight of him across the camp.

Kurt hesitated. Dorian may have been in excruciating pain, but he hadn’t been rendered blind. Kurt’s eyes had lingered on him for seconds before snapping back to the scout at his side to mutter something before giving her a slight nod. As quickly as she’d come, the scout was gone. With a quick glance around the grove Kurt started towards him, slowly unsheathing his sword. Dorian hadn’t heard so much as seen the sigh that heaved out of the Inquisitor as he slowly made his way around the fire, hands balled at his sides as he poorly attempted to hide his limp.

“You should get that checked,” Dorian said, or tried to at least, his voice rasping against his throat. He almost recoiled at the sound.

Kurt fell down beside him with a soft moan, laying his sword beside him. Usually Dorian would have made some quip about Kurt’s paranoia, but got distracted by the way the man’s eyes lingered too long on his bandaged torso. In the flickering fire light, the sheer exhaustion lining Kurt’s features became apparent; black shadows clung to the underside of his eyes like bruises, his hair was tousled and only half up, and the deep curve to his shoulder made them roughly the same height. _Has he even slept?_

Dorian failed miserably at mustering a smile. “Don’t look so distressed, amatus. I’m not dead yet.”

Kurt’s face barely shifted from its melancholic stare, his eyes dropping into his lap as he slowly began rubbing circles into his injured thigh. Even through his thick leather pants Dorian could spy the lump of a bandage.

The pair of them had sat in silence for a moment longer, Kurt still refusing to meet his gaze, when Dorian lost his patience. _“Kurtis.”_

“What?” the man beside him huffed.

Dorian let his hand shift to rest on Kurt’s thigh. He could have sworn he flinched at the touch. “I am alright, in case you weren’t aware. There’s no need to brood.”

“No you’re not,” Kurt muttered, and Dorian felt himself frown as their eyes met. “We left half of you behind in that forsaken bog and I’m still not sure how you’re even – shit, have you even looked at yourself?” For not the first time Kurt left Dorian at a loss for words. _Why does he always have this effect on me?_ Whether he noticed his slack expression or not, Kurt barrelled forwards in his rant. “Maker, you were tossed across a dragon’s lair and you don’t even seem mildly concerned by it! It shredded you into ribbons and by the time we got back to camp I was soaked in your blood and you have the gall to make light of the situation?”

“Amatus,” Dorian said, voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire and the heavy breathing of the man beside him. The thought that Kurt had carried him all the way back to camp with a mauled leg and numerous other injuries made something in him ache; the feeling was becoming much more common where Kurt was concerned.

Kurt shook his head, strands of hair scraping against his cheeks. “Don’t. You almost . . . you died and I had to . . . I couldn’t . . .”

Dorian choked on the words. “What?”

Suddenly the frigidness of the grove hit him in a wave, a shiver wracking him despite the flames before him. _Died._ What in the world was he talking about? Obviously he had been in a less-than-desirable state after the whole disaster with the dragon, but surely it hadn’t been so bad. Even as the thought crossed his mind though, he knew it was false. He found his eyes dropping to gaze at his bandaged torso with a sick feeling.

_(The camp had exploded into chaos the second they’d entered the grove. The few scouts that had been stationed there immediately came rushing forward, eyes wide as their Inquisitor had barrelled towards them with the profusely bleeding form of one of his companions bundled in his arms. Varric had run ahead to notify them, but Kurt had all but sprinted like his life depended on it – which he supposed it had – and had arrived at almost the same time as the dwarf._

_The blood of his ~~lover~~ friend had dribbled down his chest and legs as Kurt had been hustled into a tent by one of the scouts. The second Dorian had been placed on a bedroll, the woman had torn open the mage’s shirt and began pressing bandages and cloths to the wound. The attempt to stop, or at least slow, the bleeding had been fruitless though, and the white cloths had turned crimson in seconds. _

_Somewhere outside the tent, Kurt had absently heard Varric and Bull rush off out of the grove, for help probably. Honestly, Kurt hadn’t really cared._

_Another scout had rushed in to the already crowded tent then, hands full with poultices and potions and had immediately started handing them to Kurt and the female scout. Having not much experience with such traumatic injuries, Kurt had felt incredibly useless as she’d started applying them in hope of getting some semblance of control over the situation. He hadn’t remove his hands from the bloodied rags, though, even as they’d quickly become blood-soaked._

_“_ _Shit,” the scout had mumbled under her breath. “He needs a mage. Bandages and stitches aren’t going to fix this.”_

_The growl that had escaped Kurt’s lips had been almost feline. She’d briefly met his gaze, held it for a moment too long, before shouting instructions at the other scout who’d joined them. Kurt had been handed more cloths, and the three of them had set to work, barely a word between them._

_For what felt like hours they had poured poultice after poultice onto the wounds, followed by fresh cloth after fresh cloth, and although progress had been slow, it had been progress nonetheless. The amount of blood coating the tent floor may have made Kurt vomit if he hadn’t been so hyper-focused on the task at hand._

_Noises outside had caught Kurt’s attention, and seconds later Varric’s head had slipped between the tent flaps. The scout, bless her, had begun shouting at him to leave, but the dwarf’s stubbornness had made him remain. It was then that the other scout’s gasp had caught Kurt’s ear._

_Snapping his gaze to the young elven man, Kurt’s gaze quickly moved to Dorian. The elf had his ear hovering above Dorian’s face and the horror in the elf’s eyes had made the bile in Kurt’s throat rise substantially._

_“Move,” he’d snapped, straddling Dorian’s limp form and shoving the scout aside._

_Not waiting for the others to realise what was happening, Kurt had started pumping his hands into Dorian’s chest with so much force he would have worried over breaking ribs under any other circumstance. But broken bones were nothing compared to a broken heart, and Kurt hadn’t been prepared to watch anyone die, Dorian least of all._

_An odd silence had fallen over the group as Kurt had pumped his hands time and time again into Dorian’s chest, occasionally pausing to exhale the largest gulp of air he could manage into the man’s mouth. If he’d had to, he would have done it for hours if it would bring him back. The female scout had continued to push cloths to the lower part of Dorian’s chest, as if that would help at all._

_“Come on you fucking bastard,” Kurt had rasped, hands blood-soaked. “Not yet. Not like this.”_

_"Inquisitor . . .” Varric had said softly, now fully inside the tent. Bull had appeared in the entrance at some point._

_“Shut up Varric!” Kurt roared, before bending down to breathe into Dorian’s mouth again. He would keep going. “Please, Dorian. Come on. Come on.”_

_Just as Varric had made to put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, a strangled gurgle of air had erupted out of Dorian’s throat and the tent had jumped back into motion, Kurt immediately moving off of Dorian’s chest so the scouts could continue their healing efforts. It wasn’t until Kurt had brought his bloodied and aching hands to cover his face that he’d realised he’d been crying._

_“_ _Hey,” Varric had said, the sigh of relief in his tone evident. “Come on, how about leaving the scouts to it for a bit?”_

_Kurt had wiped his hands across face, not caring about the blood, and let out a ragged sigh as he’d taken in the slight rise and fall of Dorian’s chest. The female scout had found a stitches kit somewhere and was preparing her needles as her comrade had tried his best to clean the wounds for her. She’d nodded at her Inquisitor, a lover’s understanding in her dark eyes, and that had been enough for Kurt to allow Varric to drag him from the tent._

_Seconds after moving into the open air, Kurt had crashed to his knees and sobbed.)_

Dorian couldn’t bring himself to meet Kurt’s gaze (oh, the irony) as he'd listened intently to his recount of what had occured. _Died_. The word wouldn't stop dredging itself through his mind. The thought of his body laid out cold and lifeless had not been overly welcome, but the crack in Kurt's voice as he’d briefly recalled the moment had been worse. Despite himself, Dorian lifted his hand to his chest, as if to reassure himself that his heart was indeed still working and this wasn’t all just some sick dream.

The wounded look on Kurt’s face told him that it very much wasn’t, for one of them at least. The expression didn’t suit the man in the least. “Kurt I’m . . . I apologise. For what happened.”

A sigh. “It’s not your fault.”

“Well in actual fact, I believe I was the one who failed to heroically dive out of the way of a dive-bombing high dragon,” he said, a hint of his usual glibness present in an attempt to improve Kurt’s mood. “Completely self-inflicted, really.”

The sombre aura encompassing Kurt still lingered in the evening light, but the slight touch of his fingers to Dorian's on his wounded thigh made his stomach clench in the slightest. Dorian was content to simply watch Kurt’s broad fingers trace the outline of his hand, the touch so tender despite the raging violence Kurt was capable of. He was impossible, this tender-hearted man who would slice his way through literally anything to save those he cared for. How in Thedas someone could exploit such a man into being the Maker’s prophet confused Dorian to no end, although he had not ever fully understood the abusive nature of Ostwick’s clerics. In all honesty, he hoped he never had to. For both his and Kurt’s sakes.

“You’re giving me that look,” Kurt whispered.

Dorian frowned. “What look?”

“You know,” Kurt said, taking Dorian’s hand in his fully. “The lovesick-kicked-puppy one.”

His eyebrows shot up at that. “Pardon me, but I do not have a lovesick-kicked-puppy look.”

“I’m getting you a mirror for Satinalia.”

Usually Dorian might have shoved Kurt playfully, but thought against the action as he glanced quickly to his bandaged chest. Instead, he pinched him on the finger, not that it seemed to do much. “You wound me, amatus.”

“Naturally.”

A ghost of a smile played on Kurt’s face, and Dorian counted that as a success. Kurt lifted his eyes to meet his just as Dorian was staring at his dishevelled hair; he could almost see the bloodied knots and wondered again why he just didn’t chop it all off? Not that he was complaining – there weren’t many better things that running his fingers through it – but it was dangerously unpractical. He’d said as much to Kurt more than once, but if there was one thing the man was fonder of than his sword, it was his ridiculously handsome hair. Dorian didn’t have it in him to broach the subject again, though, and was content with the slight roll to Kurt’s eyes as he noticed Dorian’s gaze. When neither of them said anything for a long moment, Kurt reluctantly rested his head on Dorian’s shoulder. The sigh that reverberated through him trembled through Dorian as well.

“I’ll endeavour to keep breathing for you in the future, amatus,” Dorian said after a time, moving their intertwined hands into his lap. “Although considering your violent lifestyle, I’m not inclined to make any promises on the matter.”

Kurt huffed out a laugh at that. “Much appreciated.”

The night ebbed on, the fire still burning thanks to a flick of Dorian’s wrist. Kurt had passed out on Dorian’s shoulder hours ago and by the soft snoring in Dorian’s ear, he figured it was the first proper rest the man had managed in days. _All thanks to my idiocy, no doubt._ He didn’t have the heart to disturb him, though, so he simply sat and listened to Kurt’s even breathing, horrified at the thought of it ever stopping permanently, and what he would possibly do in such a situation.

His still-healing broken ribs throbbed at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> writing dorian is hard man. 
> 
> and also, this actually happened during my in-game fight with the gamordan stormrider. dorian was literally flung across the lair after it swooped down at the end of the fight. gave me a small heart attack.


End file.
